


The Lark's Nest

by Spiderheart



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anachronism, Anal Sex (mentioned), M/M, Nobody Likes Petyr Baelish, Sex workers, There aren't really relationships but people have a lot of sex, Unionising, pagan magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 03:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19054390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderheart/pseuds/Spiderheart





	1. Helluva Job Interview

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lycaenion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycaenion/gifts).



# Chapter I

A bright pink sun hat, a bright neon backpack, and makeup. Of course. Of course he’s _here_ and did that today. Shit. Shit. He found an alley and a shadow and leaned against a wall, telling himself there was nothing valuable to a Westerosi in his backpack, full as it was; and that there was something to be said for deciding to carry around his full makeup bag in there, today. _Calm down queen, make a plan. Inventory what you have._

_You have a lot. For one thing, you have some very nice wool leggings, you have a good pair of pants with lots of pockets, you have some layers that are good quality. You just took a shower yesterday, you have a good hat on; and you are, okay, really good at sex. You might die of the pox but you know how to kill yourself if that happens. Live a short life, but a merry one._

_Right, okay._ He hitched his backpack a little tighter and trekked on, hoping he could find the whorehouse. He didn’t have any weapons, but he knew some choice secrets, didn’t he? Maybe nothing valuable for coin, but… oh, gods, what was he going to do? Every line of thinking ended in abuse or torment. If only he could—wait. Wait. He needed to find Tyrion. It wasn’t the best decision, but maybe, if he could beat that girl Shae to it… it all depended on what year it was, and who was King.

He was too conspicuous to lurk, but he was loath to get rid of useful objects like his hat, or ruin them. He decided he had to just accept that hiding wasn’t in his nature, and work with it. He turned his steps up the hill, looking for whorehouses—nicer ones. He went into one, and recognised it. A blond came up to him, smiling a very good Customer Service version of the Professional Smile.

‘What’s your pleasure, sir?’

‘Y’all hiring?’ he asked brightly, smiling his own Big Stage Smile and using the most Gay Southern Pansy voice he could muster. _Do not apologise, take up space, be gay._ But the thing was, and he knew this, he had all of his teeth, and they were rather white, and he was rather clean, and in bright colour.

Olyvar took all this in, and said.

‘Follow me, then.’

‘Kay,’ and he followed.

‘Tell me what you can do.’

‘I can finger-fuck someone to orgasm, vaginally or anally,’ he began. ‘I know what a clitoris is, and I understand the concept of consent, and boundaries. I can do half a dozen different accents, I can do _great_ dirty talk, and I’m bisexual.’

‘And your cock, how big is it?’

He ran with the bimbo blond persona that was just happening. ‘Um, Idunno, like maybe this big?’ he said, holding his fingers apart an inch. ‘Cocks are overrated, hands are _waaay_ better.’

Olyvar gave him a look, as he shut the door to a little room with a bed and a washstand. ‘You seem very relaxed about the hand the gods have dealt you.’

‘Hunty, the gods do not make mistakes, only mortals do that.’ He snapped, and Olyvar smiled.

‘That’s the first time you haven’t been afraid.’ He dropped his robe. ‘Show me what you know.’

Sometimes, those who came here ran, or hesitated, or froze up—but this stranger, with his hat and his odd language, and odder accent, beamed, swinging his pack off his shoulders and pulling off his hat, stripping efficiently down. Flinging off his overtunic and the shirt beneath, which were both a violet so rich Olyvar had never even seen it on royalty—and the fabric looked so soft, too. Then, the foreign man was stripping off a strange undertunic that matched the hat in hue—that same brighter-than-real pink, that almost glowed. A scar was beneath it, not very old, perhaps a year, and precise as a torture-mark, cutting across the man’s narrow chest—and, somehow, Olyvar noted, removing his nipples. He had a small, soft belly, and scant hair, and very little muscle. Strange.

‘What is that scar?’ Olyvar asked, because it was relevant that he know, if the man was to work here.

‘Ah yes, the scar,’ the man said only, and continued down, pulling off his loose dun trews, and the black hose after, and the short stockings, and the shoes last, his toenails painted the same violet as his fingernails, his feet so clean and white and soft it seemed a pity to dirty it with the floor. Seeing him all together, Olyvar realised what the scar was, just as the man closed the distance, and put a hand, gently, around his kit.

‘I am not a violent man,’ he said, ‘but if you or anybody else working here ever calls me “she” or a woman, I will be. I have been stabbed with needles, I have given maesters more blood than I like to think about, I have been groped, and gate-keeped, I have been forced to take poison, I have had to lay my private parts out in a courthouse, _and then been under the chiurgeon’s knife_ for _five hours_ to _earn_ the sex that I am, and the only thing I ask of anyone is that they accept that I’m a “he” and a man. That’s it. That’s all I demand. I am a man with a _very_ small cock, and a bonus hole.’

Despite the hand on him, Olyvar knew the threat came from desperation—he _wasn’t_ a violent man, he was soft, he was in pain. He wanted respect, barest respect, for his trials.

‘Why come here, why be in the one profession that would make that hard?’

‘I’m good at it,’ he said. ‘And you know I’m getting honest reviews from my partners, because look at me.’ He let go, stepped back with a laugh. ‘I’m not pretty, I never was. I was an ugly girl with a beard, Now I’m an ugly man without enough of one; all I’ve _got_ is skill. I _like_ sex, I worship the _gods_ of sex. At this point, I am better at sex with people who have cunts; but honestly, that’s because I’m at a point where I need people to pay me to make an effort.’

Olyvar raised a brow, but smiled to soften it.

‘Well,’ the man amended. ‘Maybe not you. Depends on what you’re like. I know you’re having to be like, “this is a job interview, show me what you got, bitch” and I have to be like, acting like you’re the fuckin king or something, and my life depends on your cum.’

Olyvar couldn’t help it—despite it all, the sense of humour was getting to him, and he laughed. The stranger smiled.

‘Something like that,’ Olyvar said, ‘I notice you didn’t mention this mouth of yours…’ He said, cupping the sides of the man’s face, ‘let’s see how you kiss.’

The startle was expected, but then Olyvar was being kissed back, slow and languid; this man was definitely one to take control of things, that was something they didn’t have at this pillow-house, and sometimes needed for a client. Slow and sensual, he was really enjoying it for its own sake. Olyvar slowed down to match, and did feel the passion transfer to heat that spread down to his chest, then his belly, and then his cock.

The stranger showed he didn’t just lose himself in mouths, either; his hands, after he had established a bit of a rhythm with their kiss, slid down to Olyvar’s sides, sliding up just softly enough to tingle, at the edge of tickling, and then down, one hand moving to gently stroke the backs of his soft fingers down the underside of Olyvar’s cockstand. When they broke the kiss, the stranger looked into Olyvar’s eyes, still gently teasing the underside of Olyvar’s cock, his other hand stroking Olyvar’s side, coming up to softly play at Olyvar’s nipple, sending lightning shocks of pleasure down his body.

Control, Olyvar thought, breathless; he wasn’t just good at sex, he was good at _control_. And he wasn’t doing it with violence, with throwing and manhandling and speed, no; he was simply so confident, so charismatic, he just _decided_ what was happening—and yet there was no arrogance, merely pleasure at… what? The control itself? Olyvar struggled, but a deep breath let _him_ grasp back control again.

‘You’re _very_ good,’ Olyvar said.

‘I know,’ he said, smiling a little to give the would-be arrogant phrase some humour. He didn’t take it too seriously, he was just having fun, Olyvar realised. ‘Is that good, my sugar?’ he asked, after, and that threw Olyvar a bit off-guard, but he liked it.

‘It’s very good.’

‘Mmm, good. Now, I want a taste of these delicious little nipples…’ He canted his head, looking up from his admiration of them, one hand still playing with one, the other now delicately brushing the pad of his thumb against the little bit of skin below the cleft of Olyvar’s cockhead, which was so intense it made it hard to think—but it wasn’t painful, he seemed to know how to treat it.

And then his mouth found Olyvar’s jawline, and his mouth was just as languid and skilful there as when it had been kissing Olyvar’s mouth, as he left hot, open-mouthed kisses on the skin, working down Olyvar’s neck and lingering, before gently placing his teeth around the muscle at the very edge of shoulder, neck, and back. He pressed slowly, and Olyvar realised he could have pulled back, made a noise, at any time, and the stranger would have stopped entirely. Like a well-trained hound, he was asking permission to play-bite.

Olyvar let it all play out, but was surprised again and again at the repeated care the stranger took in making sure Olyvar was feeling pleasure, even as he held every string. Olyvar was stretched, stroked everywhere, his nipples red and swollen with attention, and limp on the bed before he realised the only thing the stranger had used was his hands, and his lips.

He hadn’t once put Olyvar’s piece in his mouth, only kissed it. He hadn’t once used any cock of his own, only his hands. Hands he’d been careful to wash with soap, and, using a small kit in his bag, cut and file down his nails, testing them on the inside of his wrist until they were acceptably smooth. He had drizzled them both in oil, generous as one who had been penetrated only could be, and it had been… as good as he claimed, perhaps more.

‘You’re hired.’


	2. Routing a Mockingbird

# Chapter II

Of course, it wasn’t long before their usual visit from Lord Baelish, and you couldn’t hide something like another boy from Baelish—he didn’t _like_ the boys, it had been he who had cut down their numbers, treating the house like it somehow reflected upon him, to have them about. Nevermind that Olyvar’s family’s house had been the only one with boys in King’s Landing, which had attracted a certain _kind_ of clientele—the kind that was Southern and polite.

By the time Lord Baelish came to visit, they called the stranger ‘Master Fuchsia’, by reason that ‘Fuchsia’ was what he answered when they asked the colour his hat was called.

(It was, he said, a shade of pink, which was to say _not_ a shade of red at all. Colour, he went on to explain, was _completely_ a product of what language you were raised speaking, and what culture you were in. It was, in short, ‘made up’. Colour didn’t _exist_ , it was constructed. Just like laws, and houses.

‘And gender,’ he had added, before moving on to explain the nuances of _orange_ , a new colour that delineated a midground between red, yellow, and brown. Olyvar had never had dinner conversation so entertaining—or educational. Master Fuchsia was _learned_ , as learned as a Maester with multiple chains—and he _shared it_ , seemed to think that’s what knowledge was _for_. In a week, he’d started to teach everyone how to write their own name, letting them pick out which spelling they liked best.)

The house was quiet, when Lord Baelish came to call—he always had the sense to come when there was no custom, but the house was rarely quiet; there was always a child’s voice somewhere, for even Baelish couldn’t argue with Tradition, and a whorehouse was traditionally full of children, during the hours it wasn’t open, seeing as it was a house full of what made them.

It was quiet, of course, because Master Fuchsia was with the little ones, telling them stories. Olyvar and he both wanted to keep him away from Baelish, but it was only a matter of time. Still, Olyvar went to meet Lord Baelish, went over the accounts, and then went over the _other_ accounts, and then Baelish, quite predictably, wanted to see why everything was so quiet, and so _clean_.

(That was another thing Fuchsia was teaching them—how soap and hot water and a few other things could make sure illness didn’t spread. It didn’t _cure_ it, but keeping it from spreading from person to person was better than a cure)

‘—and then, with a mighty _squelch_ , one of Ella’s fine slippers stuck in the pitch the Prince had spread on the stairs—but she got away!’

There were lots of gasps, as Baelish walked in, something he rather pettily enjoyed—until he realised they weren’t _for_ him, that _he_ hadn’t been noticed. Instead, the children—and most of their minders—were all attention for a man Baelish had never seen before, who was at the back of the room, his beard marking him a man in his twenties, at most. His hair was too long for a man, and braided with ribbons of pale red, and little flowers.

‘But how is he going to find her?’ interrupted one of the smallest brats; and, quite apart from cuffing her, as she deserved, the man leaned down with a smile all of delight.

‘And that, o my most beloved, is why she was happy to keep the shoe! For it was a _fairy_ -made shoe, and fairies are the finest shoemakers, o my most beloved. So fine, that any shoe they make will only fit _one_ foot!’

‘Ella’s foot?’

The man gasped dramatically. ‘How did you _know_?’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Have you heard this before?’

‘Am I interrupting something important?’ Lord Baelish asked, ever so polite; but he expected fear. What he got was… not exactly that. The children knew to fear him; but this new one did not.

‘Oh dear,’ said the man, ‘well, I suppose you shall all have to wait until later to hear the rest about Ella’s shoe, o my most beloveds.’

‘That is Master Fuchsia,’ Olyvar said in a low tone, beneath the shuffle of many small feet, and small voices. ‘He arrived to us only a few days ago.’

‘Funny, I thought I told you to stop looking for boys.’

‘He wasn’t looking for me,’ said Fuchsia, not bothering to pretend he hadn’t overheard. ‘ _I_ was looking for _him_. You must be our Lord and Master.’

‘I don’t like your tone,’ Baelish said.

‘Noted and filed,’ said the man, and dodged Baelish’s backhand, catching it and quickly putting Baelish in a locked hold no amount of tourney play could have prepared Baelish for.

‘Unhand me, _whore_!’

‘I don’t like your tone,’ said Fuchsia.

Olyvar’s eyes widened, and he had to bite his lip hard to hold back the smile, swallow down the laugh.

‘Olyvar!’ Baelish said. Olyvar didn’t move, but didn’t put himself in sight, either. The other whores left were all his elders, all his aunts, who remembered well who had killed Olyvar’s mother, the Madam of House Fulton, the oldest continuous house of harlots in King’s Landing. They all remembered what glory Baelish had squandered in favour of petty secret-trade, jumping himself up as a poor imitation of a spymaster.

‘Here’s the thing,’ Fuchsia said. ‘You’re a lord. Lords don’t own whorehouses. Whores do. Now, are you a whore? No, no you are not, nor would Olyvar have you as one—can you imagine the ruin it would be, paying _customers_ to have _you_?’

‘I can _ruin_ this entire house! I have the ear of Lord Tywin!’

‘Who is, doubtless, eager to hear you complain about a _whorehouse_ in this, our nation’s time of _war_. Good move, _my lord_ , it’s _very_ clear you’re a lord, with thinking like that. Well done. Credit to your title, you are.’

Furious silence met this, and Olyvar shared grins with his aunts, at the wit of their new boy. He’d asked a lot of questions about Lord Baelish, and had pointed out that if there was no ‘paper trail’ to prove Lord Baelish owned this place, then, was there, also, _no actual proof that Lord Baelish could demand their acting like he owned this place_? It was one of those gaping loopholes that rich men rely on, and Fuchsia had explained how, where he was from, the workers had realised that they outnumbered the lords some time ago, and now frequently reminded those lords quite often of that, holding _them_ hostage.

Fuchsia had also told them of a lord he admired, named Vetinari, who was a very good lord of his city because mostly he _facilitated_ the people running things how they wanted things to be; who never said a word that could be said to be improper, yet _implied_ a whole host of things. Such was his wit, and such was the wit Fuchsia employed now, managing to make ‘my lord’ sound like an insult.

The most light-fingered of the house was a boy with a terrible habit of pick-pocketing—they hadn’t been able to make him stop, no matter how much they punished him for it; but Fuchsia had managed to have a talk with him, and give him the nickname of The Artful Dodger, and played _games_ with him, that involved the same skills. As such, the Artful Dodger had stopped using his skills so wantonly, and now was a very well-behaved little boy, who just liked to solve little puzzles that required a light hand (he was marvellous with fixing jewellery, or retrieving it from some small place).

The Artful Dodger, at a silent nod from Olyvar, now disarmed Lord Baelish, and only after the sword and knives were safely out of the room did Master Fuchsia release Lord Baelish, shoving him toward the door.

‘This was never your house, and it isn’t now,’ Master Fuchsia said, ‘Get out, I hate looking at people that haven’t paid for the privilege.’

Baelish reached for his weapons, found none, and glared.

‘You will not get away with this!’

‘I already have,’ Master Fuchsia said quietly, and stared him down, his blue eyes burning and strange without brows (for he sheared them off every three days), and framed by his odd spectacles.

As Baelish showed himself out, Olyvar let out his breath, still tense. ‘He may come back, with guards.’

‘He won’t,’ Master Fuchsia said in a decisive tone. ‘He hasn’t any legal ground to stand on, remember?’

Olyvar had planned this with him and the other whores old enough to remember the house without Baelish ruling it. Master Fuchsia could _read_ , and he could read _thoroughly_ , and he spoke well; he’d been able to inquire about the laws, had read them, and even copied them down. They were, according to said laws, in the clear; Baelish only had control so long as they believed it—and Master Fuchsia opined that Baelish had likely assumed they would never be able to know their rights, as that required education that whores didn’t get.

 

 


	3. Snakes and Lions

# Chapter III

A week passed, with nothing worse than the usual near-brawls from those who were too far in their cups; and then a Dornish prince arrived, and Master Fuchsia seemed to know him, from the expression—but _what_ he knew was anyone’s guess. Oberyn Martell was well-known, infamous even, for his temper as much as his libido.

Olyvar was a little overwhelmed, but not in an unpleasant way, when Oberyn flirted with him; there was a charisma to Prince Oberyn that was so heated it dried his mouth and knotted his tongue. He could barely voice that his time was wildly expensive, after the man propositioned him.

‘What are you staring at?’ asked one of Prince Oberyn’s men, a little suspicious.

‘La, but can’t a man stare at another man’s arse, in a whorehouse?’ Master Fuchsia was in full flutter, and Olyvar wasn’t the only one who giggled. He showed this side only rarely, when he was in fine spirits—and they’d all been in fine spirits, since Baelish had gone.

‘That is Master Fuchsia,’ Olyvar said, with a gesture and a smile. ‘He flirts.’

‘ _Flyts_ , darling, _flyts_ —quite a different thing, altogether!’ Master Fuchsia sashayed over—and Olyvar knew the word from Fuchsia himself—and folded up his fan in one swift flick, tapping it to painted lips. ‘My _word_ , aren’t you boys _charming_ …’ His eyes were lingering rather lower than smiles, as he said it, and he even craned his neck a little to survey their hindquarters.

The Prince laughed, and it was a pleasant, smoky laugh. ‘And how much for _your_ time?’

‘Oh, my _dear_ , aren’t you precious! I doubt you’d want anything to do with _my_ services, as they all involve bending at the knee— _your_ knee doing the bending, understand, not mine.’

‘Aha,’ Oberyn said. ‘You cannot be persuaded, then?’

‘La, only if you were the Stranger himself—’ he leaned in, flipping out the fan as though to whisper a great secret, voice low. ‘I’ve always wanted him to fuck me, you know,’ he purred, wagging his painted-on eyebrows suggestively.

‘I have been compared to he,’ Oberyn flirted back, raising a brow, his full lips tugging upward on one side. ‘And I am not so proud, to not know the pleasures of submitting to a professional.’

‘Ooh! You _do_ flatter, you naughty boy. Down, then,’ and just like that, the flutter was gone, and Olyvar heard the voice of the Dominant, as Fuchsia called it. This was where Fuchsia proved he was a risk, a wild creature of changeable moods. Oberyn’s men were not taking that tone well, their hands were on their swords immediately—but Oberyn himself obeyed, bending one knee. Fuchsia gave a small smile, but Olyvar saw actual delight in him—he knew Oberyn well enough to _want_ him, not simply be taking pleasure in his trade, as he often did—or taking pleasure in subjugating a man, as he more often did. Olyvar was curious anew—what _did_ Fuchsia know?

‘ _Gooood_ boy,’ Fuchsia purred, and Olyvar was _sure_ , now, that Fuchsia _was_ taking his own pleasure at it. Olyvar’s heart was glad for it—Fuchsia had never met a man he liked, other than Olyvar, and often thought aloud on the terrible fate of being interested in men but knowing how hateful they all were, round about King’s Landing. Southern men, however, were different—the South was, somewhat notoriously, very lax with the Sept’s commands on who was to do bedsport with whom; and, besides which, had _other sexes_ , which were mysterious and alien and likely as not from fucking merlings.

Merlings were something Fuchsia knew very much about—they were people-shaped fish, they ate people, and they were highly, highly dangerous. Beautiful yes, but that was the point—they lured their prey in with that beauty, with their singing. It was all designed to get their food to come to them, willing and helpfully. Olyvar couldn’t help but think of merlings—Fuchsia had told many stories about them, about their Folk—and Olyvar thought, perhaps, Fuchsia could easily be one, but for his ears not being pointed. He had come in from nowhere, he spoke like no one else, and had no origin; but he worshipped the sea, and the sun, and the animals of the sea, calling them strange names Olyvar had never heard.

And now, he was taking a collar from Oberyn’s hands, Dornish leather soft and lithe, buckling it around Oberyn’s neck.

‘You may walk,’ he said, and started for his room, making his robe flutter like wings with the turning, expert at making an exit. Oberyn grinned, and followed. Olyvar wished he could make comment, but only turned to the men that Oberyn had left, smiling and moving on with business.

-

Fuchsia didn’t like sleeping where he worked, but luckily Olyvar understood that, and the beds for sport were not much comfortable for sleeping, and vice-versa. The sporting beds were metal now,  brass with a solid bottom for the ticks of the mattresses, of which there were not many.

Oberyn did not know what to make of such a strange man—what was on his face, strange, thick lenses, that framed his eyes and gave him a constantly feline expression? And in his voice, how casually he saw Oberyn and jested wittily with him about giving orders? Oberyn loved to bend the knee—at least, in the bedroom, in a certain mood. He had not known, himself, that he was going to be in such a mood, when he came here, to the finest pillow-house in King’s Landing; yet this man (or was he a man? Was he one of the river-souls?) had made him want to, this man had power and peace all in one. Oberyn had taken the risk, and the risk had been worth it, for when the door closed, there were no more orders, but merely a look.

‘I’m called Fuchsia, and I want to know exactly what kinds of things you want to do, and what you want me to do, before we begin. We also need to agree on a word that means I need to stop, if you like to play games that involve no-means-yes.’ He sat down on the chest at the foot of the bed, looking earnestly at Oberyn, waiting.

Oberyn liked this honesty, as much as the novel turn of phrase, and was about to answer when they both heard a song being belted, some rooms away. The words were unclear, but the melody wasn’t. Fuchsia immediately tensed, but said nothing; an what would he say, Oberyn thought, pulling the collar from his throat and going to the door, wrenching it open and stalking down the hall.

Fuchsia indulged in a smile and a stifled giggle, then got up, shutting the door behind him and following the song. He knew what came next, he was _hungry_ for it…. And he did not miss Tyrion, with his golden hair and heterochromia. When they met eyes, Tyrion addressed him.

‘Where is Prince Oberyn Martell?’

‘About to stab someone,’ Fuchsia answered, not stopping. He did _not_ want to miss it.

Fuchsia halted Olyvar, who had heard the song and could add. Ellaria—Ellaria?—was close on his heels.

‘Forgive me for staring, but I don’t see many Lannisters where I’m from,’ Oberyn said, after making an entrance worthy of a guidebook on how to be quietly threatening.

‘And we don’t see many Dornishmen in the capital,’ came the weak riposte, and the cheeky grin, from the lad with one of the rough-and-readies on his lap (so called by Fuchsia, who had come up with a lot of names for things that previously did not have them).

‘We don’t like the smell.’

‘Lover!’ Ellaria tried to drag him back. ‘Please, come—’

Fuchsia put his hand over Olyvar’s mouth. ‘Let him teach his lesson,’ he whispered. ‘Enjoy the show.’ He watched the first mistake—assuming every woman in a whore house was a whore. _Strike one_ , thought Fuchsia, giddy. It also kept him from answering the query, because he knew he had a smart mouth, and was tempted to jump into any battle of wits.

‘You know why all the world hates a Lannister? You think your gold and your lions and your gold lions make you better than everyone…. May I tell you a secret? You’re not a golden lion; you’re just a pink little man who is far too slow on the draw.’

It was magnificent. Fuchsia quickly sidestepped so he had a better view of the stab, which was magnificent; and that knife! He was a little horrified at how much he was enjoying this; but he indulged himself, even as he kept his ear and other senses on Mitzy and Presha, fleeing the scene, directing them to Olyvar’s arms.

Ellaria didn’t recognise this painted man, with his shining contraption on his face; but she was far too concerned with the fight.

‘So many veins in the wrists…’ her lover went on, with that tiger smile.

Fuchsia bit his lip, and realised the attraction and glee was a combination of Oberyn’s knowledge being put to practical use, his sense of drama, his perfect control of the situation from the moment he’d walked in, his wit, his forging of his anger into such a fine weapon altogether, _and_ pointing it at a bastion of toxic masculinity, rather than someone like Fuchsia, where it was so easily pointed. Delightful man!

‘Don’t let them leave without paying, please,’ Fuchsia asked, oh-so-politely; and Oberyn glanced at him, not unkindly.

‘Prince Oberyn, forgive the intrusion, we heard there might be—’ came a voice from behind the tableau, as Lord Tyrion came blustering in.

Fuchsia chorused with him. ‘—Trouble. My, isn’t _this_ a party.’ He flipped out his fan. ‘La, I may _perish_ ; _three_ silver-tongues in one room! Loki _smiles_. Now.’ He whistled, short and sharp, and a small boy with elegant fingers appeared from behind a curtain. ‘Dodger,’ he said warmly. ‘Extract the nice man’s gold, so he can pay Mitzy.’

Dodger did not talk much, if at all; he pointed at the man currently making all kinds of noises, and Fuchsia nodded, and Dodger extracted the fee from his purse, silent and quick. ‘Now,’ Fuchsia said, as Dodger trotted over with the money. ‘Shall I have Dodger help you with yours, ser?’ he asked the other, raising a brow. ‘Or can you hand it to me yourself?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You couldn’t afford that with a year’s worth of pay, darling,’ Fuchsia said, with his widest smile.

‘Pay,’ Oberyn said, _very_ calmly. The man looked hateful, but paid his fee, and Fuchsia took it, as the girls had already fled. He gave the gold to Dodger. ‘Give those to your sisters, there’s a good lad,’ Fuchsia said, and looked at the two lions. ‘ _Now_ you may leave,’ he said sweetly, and Oberyn wrenched the dagger from the man’s wrist.

‘I’m here to welcome you to the capital,’ Lord Tyrion said, as Oberyn and Ellaria started kissing. Fuchsia didn’t watch, but pulled up a chair, crossing his leg and regarding Lord Tyrion, who could not help but regard him.

‘He’ll be awhile,’ Fuchsia said. ‘Let’s talk.’

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, slightly. Fuchsia didn’t look away.

‘You’re the bitch,’ Tyrion said, presently. Fuchsia burst out laughing.

‘I am the _queen_ bitch, honey, how are you?’

‘Quite well, all things considered.’

‘Bullshit,’ Fuchsia said, still smiling. ‘You’re FINE—fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional.’ He waved a hand ‘Weddings do that to everyone.’

It was Tyrion’s turn to laugh, and Fuchsia was glad for the appreciative audience.

‘So,’ he said, eyeing Tyrion up and down and letting show all his appetite for him. ‘Why don’t we see the famous Lord Tyrion around here more often?’

‘I’m married, sadly.’

‘I’d love to have your wife,’ Fuchsia said, letting a bit of honesty in his tone. ‘Be educational, probably, with the state of sexual education in this country.’ He rolled his ankle.

Tyrion… thought about it. ‘Lady Sansa would likely shy from such unladylike pastimes.’

‘Lady Sansa has permission to know that there is _one_ man in Westeros who understands a woman’s pain, and he is _personally_ inviting Lady Sansa to his home tomorrow for breakfast and a class on human sexuality. You can come too,’ he added, seeing Tyrion’s curiosity.

‘How would you understand a woman’s pain?’ Ellaria and Oberyn were tuned back in; splendid. Fuchsia looked up at Bronn, and got to his feet, glancing back down at Tyrion. ‘I’m not telling the merc,’ he said, folding his arms. Tyrion considered it.

‘You do realise people say things like that and then try to kill him,’ Bronn growled.

‘I do,’ Fuchsia said simply. He let the silence go on for a few moments, before saying, ‘I am not “people”, Ser Bronn. Out,’ he pointed, and he summoned his will, making himself inexorable, using his Mistress voice. Bronn went, and was out the door before he realised he had taken an order from a whore. This realisation was accompanied by the door locking behind him.

Well, shit.

-

Fuchsia turned from the door, and padded softly back into the room, going over to the carved screens, which silhouetted him against the light from the western wall. ‘I’ll tell the three of you,’ he said softly, ‘because I happen to want to fuck the three of you. And anyway,’ he went on, ‘you three would understand.’ He held his head high, and turned to put himself in profile. ‘I have something which is rather extraordinary for a man to possess, that is to say I have that which sheds blood every moon—or should, anyway. So, yes, I understand a woman’s pain—yet I am a boy. Uniquely qualified—’ here, he kissed his hand raising it and his eyes skyward. ‘by the gods, to educate on sexuality.’

‘What gods?’ Ellaria asked, smiling at the dramatics.

‘The eight Erotes, my sugar! Gods of love; patrons of whores, lovers, poets, and anyone else who worships at the altar of love!’ He laughed, as always overwhelmed with rapture at speaking of them—but more, he knew Tyrion had once said he craved gods of “tits and wine”.

Fuchsia went back over to the door, unlocking it and opening it. ‘There, your boss is all right, promise,’ Fuchsia said to him, and peeked out to Olyvar, after Bronn went past him. ‘My lord and master, my dear Olyvar, sugardream, could you get some of that white nitron powder and vinegar for me, so I can clean up the blood?’

Olyvar looked relieved; he’d already seen Dodger come out with gold, showing it to him in two hands, and Olyvar had taken the silent message—Fuchsia had used Dodger to get the money for Mitzy and Presha. Well, Fuchsia _was_ helpful—he always was, but he’d never been helpful in _quite_ this situation, before….

‘Yes, thank you.’ Olyvar went away, determining to get someone else to do it, though he knew Fuchsia was a little odd about bodily fluids—he told them bodily fluids (and he used that word) were what carried any disease the owner might have, and it was very dangerous to touch them without proper cautionary measures; but that vinegar, strong vinegar, killed every disease that could be present. Nitron powder foamed when you put vinegar on it, and that had proven extremely helpful to clean bloodstains. Olyvar still didn’t want Fuchsia cleaning it up, himself, when one of the little ones could do it with his direction.

Fuchsia came back into the room, shutting the door behind him, but leaving it unlocked, this time.

‘Eight love-gods?’ Tyrion commented. ‘Are there gods of anything else?’

‘Oh yes, there’s a god for _everything_!’ Fuchsia sat in his favourite chair in this room, crossing his legs again. ‘Go on, name something.’

‘Wine.’

‘Dionysos.’

‘Tits.’

‘No, Bronn, he named that one,’ Tyrion said. ‘You weren’t here.’

‘Aphrodite, mother of the eight love-gods, goddess of female beauty and of her sexual power.’ Fuchsia replied, even so.

‘Revenge,’ Oberyn said, and Ellaria tensed up again, so did everyone else.

‘Hera, queen of the gods—though, to be fair, all of my gods are very good at revenge. For you…’ Fuchsia gazed at him, letting his expression get a bit odd and his voice get a little distant. You had to play the part. ‘Hermaphroditos, protector and avenger of those who have been raped. One of the love gods.’

Everyone’s attention suddenly sharpened, none more than Oberyn.

‘How did you know that?’ he asked, dangerously focussed.

‘Another power my gods give me,’ Fuchsia said, having waited for this moment. ‘Apollo smiles upon me, and grants me The Sight.’ He canted his head, slowly, to the other side. ‘I see many things; it’s rare I can use them to help.’

Tyrion raised a brow. ‘That’s why my eyes don’t bother you.’

‘Oh, no, heterochromia isn’t that odd, where I’m from,’ Fuchsia lied. ‘It’s considered beautiful.’ He could make up whatever utopia he wanted, it was _his_ backstory. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Are we having an orgy this fine morning, or am I to show you all out without even one orgasm between you?’ He pouted, and hoped it looked convincingly tongue-in-cheek.

‘We have business in the Red Keep, unfortunately,’ Lord Tyrion said.

‘Come with me,’ Oberyn said to Fuchsia.

‘Gladly, O Prince,’ Fuchsia said, ‘Let me change into something more appropriate for travel, and see to the bloodspill.’

 

 


End file.
